


Bathtime

by KassieProphet



Series: Mary Goore Stuff [6]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24871390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: Prompt:Reader giving Mary a bath like an angry cat
Relationships: Mary Goore/Reader
Series: Mary Goore Stuff [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596607
Comments: 28
Kudos: 26





	Bathtime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beetlejuicy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetlejuicy/gifts).



He came in by the open window again (and maybe that’s why you left it open, but:  _ shh _ ), hands scrabbling for purchase before he hefted his skinny, noodle body by increments into your bedroom. It took him what felt like 10min, during which you’d only continued painting your toenails.

After heaving himself in, he sits at the foot of your sill, panting.

“No, no,” he wheezes, “I’m all right. No need to get up.”

“K,” you say as you spread your toes, assessing the paint job.

“Bitch. I’m gonna dick you down so good.”

You turn to him. “I can see that”

He gives you the finger. 

There’s a glass of water on your night table, and you pass it over to him; Mary drinks it down in big, greedy gulps—1/3 of it spilling out the side of his mouth and dribbling down his neck to stain the collar of his tee. He hands it back to you, empty, as he wipes off his chin with the back of his hand.

“Thanks,” he says.

You shrug. “You better be sweating it out over me soon.”

He smiles with too much teeth. “That can be arranged.”

Soon enough he’s on you—and you can only hope your toe polish is dry enough—with too much tongue and all of his weight pressing into you. He’d taken off his studded, denim vest—but his belts still jab into you, so you squirm out from under him and onto your side.

“Fuck,” he says as he slobbers onto the side of your cheek, “I can’t wait to feel you around me. I’m gonna get you all dirty.”

You’re pretty sure he means in a sexy way, but with his hygiene, he could also mean literal dirt and fleas. You try not to think about it, instead wiggling around so that you’re grinding your ass against his erection.

He sucks hard on your neck as he ruts into you. “Mmm, fuck yeah. Lemme feel that sweet ass, baby.”

His hand creeps under the hem of your shirt, splaying against your stomach before it inches closer,  _ closer _ to the waistband of your sleep pants. A part of you can’t wait to feel his fingers on you and to have him drawing pleasure out of you … but a bigger part can’t help but remember the dark crescents under his nails and ringing his cuticles, the dirt embedded in the whorls of his fingertips. And—as much as you want his cock—you can’t help but remember the  _ smell _ between his legs that had you gagging for an entirely different reason last time.

All too soon your brain can’t help but remind you of the rumors that you’ve heard—and Mary does nothing to dissuade—of what he gets up to in graveyards.

Suddenly you’re jumping off the bed, away from his touch; his hands are still positioned as if he were still holding you, and the bulge in his jeans is obscene. He looks up at you, startled.

“What? Did I hurt you?”

“I just um,” you stutter as you edge toward the door, “I just need a second.”

You see his brows furrow, his mouth almost forming a word, before you’re fumbling with your doorknob and hightailing it to the bathroom. Once there, you sit on the toilet seat with your head in your hands. The throb between your legs is insistent—but you can’t unknow your thoughts on Mary’s … grime. He’s only a little selfish as a lover—better than you’d initially given him credit for the first night you’d taken him home in a tipsy haze—so you really  _ were _ looking forward to the dicking down he was going to give you.

But … you’re sober now and: gross.

_ If only he _ … . And just like  **that** , you have an idea.

It takes longer than you expected—and honestly you’re half certain Mary probably got bored and left—but when you shimmy back into your room in nothing but your robe, Mary’s still sprawled on your bed, nails half done in the color you’d been using: jungle red.

He looks up at you with a soft  _ Dafuq? _ you think is meant to convey concern.

You lower your voice to give it a “sexy” intonation. “I prepared something  _ special _ for you. How ‘bout you strip and follow me, hmm?”

A vulpine smile cracks Mary’s face, and he’s all at once trying to scramble off the bed  _ and _ take off his clothes as he stumbles behind you. You back into the bathroom—your hand toying with the tie at your waist—as Mary yanks off his ripped tee by the back collar and hops out of his jeans, his clothes now a treasure trail on the floor.

By the time you’ve backed yourself into the tiled wall—your robe undone and dangerously close to parting—Mary is just down to his holy, threadbare boxer briefs. He’s too fixated on the sliver of skin that you’re showing to really be too much aware of anything else in the bathroom. He leers at you—biting his plump lower lip—as his hands go for you.

Which is when—smile firmly fixed on your face—you give him a little shove. He wobbles unsteadily, a look of confusion on his face, and you give another. This time, his arms windmill out, and he grabs onto your shower curtain to right himself … but you’re already  _ right there _ , giving a jab to his chest. Pulling half the curtain off it’s hooks with a  _ plink plink plink _ , the back of Mary’s knees hit the lip of the tub, and he goes splashing into the hot, soapy water filling it.

A tidal wave sloshes over the side, splatting on the floor and bathmat, as Mary lets out an ungainly  _ GAH _ before the receding oceans close back up over him. Even though you’re now fully exposed, you can’t help but cackle at Mary’s situation: he’s half sprawled in the tub, his legs sticking up and out, as his half-wet hair sticks to his face, soapy rivulets dripping down his cheeks. He’s eyes flash with murderous intent … but honestly he just looks like a wet, angry cat.

“What. The. Fuck,” he spits as his hands slip slide against the bottom of the tub for purchase.

You grab his scrawny ankles and chuck them into the bathwater, sock and all, even as he squawks in protest.

“Your dick is good, Goore—but you’re not sticking anything anywhere until I’m sure you’re squeaky clean of whatever the fuck it is you get into.”

“Fuck you, get off,” he bitches as he trashes about, water going everywhere.

You grab a loofa you’d had the forethought to soap up, and start scrubbing—behind his ears as well as his neck and shoulders.

“Fuck,  _ all right _ —Jesus,” he whines as he squirms away from you. “Lemme fucking do it.” He yanks the loofa away from you, never breaking his glare at you as he begins to scrub himself down. At this point his hair is wet, limp against the sides of his skull and his forehead. The remnants of his makeup are the black ring around his eyes and the white cake sticking to his hairline.

“Don’t forget—” you start as you point to his face, and he snarls at you.

“Bitch, I’m getting to it. Fuck off.”

Settling onto the toilet seat, you draw your robe back together.

Mary’s eyes follow you. “Aw, c’mon!” he whines.

You put your bare foot up on the tub lip, curling your toes over it.

“Be a good boy and clean your ass, and I’ll take the robe off.”

Mary scowls at you and crosses his arms.

“You’re an awful lotta work for a casual lay.”

You shrug unaffectedly, even though your heart is thumping.

“Then go fuck someone else. I’m not stopping you.”

You put on an air of nonchalance that you don’t feel as you as Mary stare at each other. Finally, he lets out a huff and a “whatever,” before he’s peeling off his boxers. He throws them out of the tub, and they hit the wall with a splat before they slide down to the floor in a sloshy mound.

Mary cleans himself almost shyly, and you close your eyes as you rest your head against the side of your sink. There’s some splashing around, and then he says, almost quietly,

“Ok, I’m done.”

You open your eyes and look at him, pale and naked in the now-scummy water. He’s still glaring at you, but the intensity has dimmed somewhat as he crosses his arms in front of himself. Smiling, you untie your robe, letting it pool at your feet before you remember the puddle of water. Mary’s eyes laser onto your naked skin before you’re stepping into the water.

“Um—”

“ _ Shh _ ,” you say, putting a finger to his lips before flicking the drain lever open with your toe. You reach past his sitting form as your fumble to turn on the shower.

“What the f—” he sputters, but you’re pulling him up and drawing him into a kiss. As the spray sputters from cold to hot over you two, you reach down to grab at Mary’s ass, bringing him flush with you.

“Yeah, ok,” he mumbles into your mouth.

Twining your fingers into the wet mess of his flat hair, you say, “If we’re only going to get dirty again, I think we should stay here.” Your hand slides to wrap around his half-hard dick, and he moans, quickly reaching down to touch you. Even as the two of you pet at each other, your one hand reaches up to grab his jaw so that he meets your eyes.

“You may be dicking me, Goore—but I’m the one in charge. And next time I expect you to be clean, or I’ll peel those digits off before you get halfway through my window. Got it?”

He swallows hard—adam’s apple bobbing—before giving you a short, curt nod, his eyes blown wide.

“Good. Now, let’s get filthy.”

  
  
  



End file.
